


Crow

by zoeburchard



Category: The Goldfinch (2019), The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, In Time - Freeform, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Theo being Theo, boris being boris, they get there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:15:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27074086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoeburchard/pseuds/zoeburchard
Summary: Based on the song Crow by Bear's DenI think about Boris much more than I’d like to admit. He’s like a plague of the mind- once he’s in, he’s almost impossible to get out.
Relationships: Kotku/Boris Pavlikovsky, Theodore Decker/Boris Pavlikovsky, Theodore Decker/Pippa
Comments: 10
Kudos: 59





	Crow

I think about Boris much more than I’d like to admit. He’s like a plague of the mind- once he’s in, he’s almost impossible to get out.

Before Kotku, I never _had_ to think about him- he was always around, an ever present fixture of my life. We slept in the same bed (depending on whose dad was least likely to be home), we shared any money we were given or acquired, shared all the food and school supplies we stole- shared our secrets (well, maybe not all of our secrets.) He was just _there._ Now things were different. It was as though the sun had fallen out of the sky entirely and the moon of my life was fading. My bed was empty, my heart was broken and my nightmares had become significantly more unbearable. It was no longer only a string of terrors trying to save my mother, but now a curly, raven-haired, half-starved boy abandoning me all the same.

It was nearly dusk on a Friday night as I half heartedly rocked my body back and forth on the swing set at the forgotten community center. Without Boris around to get fucked up with I had little desire to get fucked up. (Maybe I was a bit drunk, but it’s hard to remember). I do remember it was particularly windy, the dust blew all around me like I was in a cloud and I couldn’t bring myself to care. _How could Boris let a girl ruin what we had?_ My eyes focused on the tiny flying flecks of sand as if tracing their patterns in the air would make me forget how lonely I was.

I thought I caught a glimpse of something coming through the cloud of golden sand. A dark figure moving towards me. I couldn’t bring myself to care. Thought it might just be a drunken hallucination. Instead of paying any mind to what may or may not have been anything at all, I spun around until the chains of the swing were fused in a long, tight twist. When I could twist no more, I shut my eyes tight and lifted my feet, I began to unwind rapidly in the opposite direction. With my feet tucked under me, I leaned my head on my hand, holding the too-warm chain, enjoying the dizziness overcoming my aching head.

The spinning stopped with a jolt. Lazily I opened my eyes and gazed up at the chains to see what had happened.

Unmistakable, long, pasty-white fingers and a wrist laden with black bracelets- the culprit for my jolting halt. “Potter.” _God, I missed how the stupid fucking nickname sounded when he said it._ We hadn’t seen each other outside of school in over a week (a true eternity for the young) and I certainly wasn’t expecting to see him anytime soon, especially not on a weekend when he could be fucking around with Kotku.

Our eyes met. “Fuckface.” His stare was intense. While there was a softness to his eyes, I could tell he wasn’t happy. Heat rose in my cheeks instantly. I knew Boris could read my face like a book made for kindergarteners so I looked down into the sand, hoping a hole would open in the earth and swallow me whole.

Those long pale fingers slid down the chains- I couldn’t help but lift my gaze to watch, holding my breath for reasons I refused to admit. He took hold of the chains on the swing opposite me and sat down. I swallowed hard and pushed my stupid glasses up the bridge of my nose. “Where’s Kotku?”

He grunted, _anywhere but here._ Pushing with his feet, he began to swing, but not far off the ground. He looked off into the cloud of dust, “We are having argument. Thought maybe you might want company.” His voice lacked any of the usual mischief it typically carried.

Boris and Kotku were always having arguments. They fought almost as viciously as we did- only, their fights were far less physical than ours (most of the time). The real difference is we never fought about anything that mattered and if we did, it never affected our friendship. We always made up before the fight could ever go anywhere (usually a matter of minutes after it had begun). Kotku could stay mad at Boris for days, about anything and everything, and even back then the only thing I could think of was _If that’s what love is, I don’t want it._ Boris, on the other hand, would go crawling back to her in fifteen minutes apologizing and saying **I love you** only to be told to ‘Get the fuck out!’ or she’d tell Matt everything. Boris said he wasn’t afraid of Matt (I was afraid of Matt on his behalf) but he definitely didn’t want Kotku telling him about their relationship.

Toeing sideways over to Boris, I gently kicked his leg _It’s going to be okay_ and he understood. He looked back at me, a small smile creeping up, the golden sand storm surrounding him. It looked like light reflecting right off his skin and back onto my world, lighting up every inch of everything that had died inside me in the time we had been apart. _A virus of the mind but still the brightest part of my life._

We swung in a comfortable silence until the last shred of light was gone and the warm sand turned bruised shades of blue. “I’m fucking starving, Potter! Let’s get out of here.” He pumped his legs for one last big swing and jumped off mid air, landing in the sand like a cat.

-

There had been little food at my house, but we ate what we could, drank a whole lot more and passed out in nothing but our underwear (at this point you could say _our_ underwear, as all our clothes had gotten so mixed between the two of us it was hard to tell what was his and what was mine anymore), Popchik curled up at our feet in my (our) small bed.

The air conditioning was extra chilly that night. Unconsciously, Boris inched closer and closer to me until he was curled up like a cat against my chest, one arm draped around my waist and lower back, fingers occasionally twitching and tickling my skin. He thought I was more drunk than I was, but I was only drunk enough to be too exhausted to be awake and too dizzy to sleep. In lieu of sleep, I laid there watching Boris roll around until he had me in his thin arms. Black curls brushed against my lips and my nose- I could smell the alcohol, sweat, cigarettes and that other scent that was so distinctly Boris. I had missed this. _I missed him._

During his week and a half with Kotku, I had cradled his pillow nightly trying to catch his scent. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the nights we shared a bed were the only nights I slept. It wasn’t a dreamless, peaceful sleep, but it was better than the restless insomnia I had without him. His scent had helped lull me into a few hours of rough sleep, but dreaming was somehow worse than real life. Often times I would lie awake staring at his side of the bed. A strand of his long curly hair would appear here and there making me feel both closer and miles further apart from the Ukrainian boy I’d grown far too close to.

But on this night, he was there, I was in his arms. Over his mop of dirty hair I could see the outline of his body holding mine. The curve of his shoulder, his too thin arm, his bony hip and long bird legs. _He’ll probably always be taller than me by at least a head_ I had thought. Just another thing I was wrong about.

His hair, while desperately needing a shower, still managed to look so soft. It felt nice against my face and I wanted to touch it. I reached up, careful not to move in such a way that would wake him. My fingertips were millimeters from his dark curls when he rolled onto his back suddenly- causing me to jerk my hand back- shaking his head and swallowing in his sleep. The arm that had been holding me slid back down onto the bed and the cold crept into my bones. “Potter…”

My eyes went wide, body tensed and I held my breath. Was he awake? Did he know I was awake? But when he rolled his head back where I could see his face, his eyes were shut and his breathing was still. Releasing my breath silently, I carefully moved closer so we could share the warmth of our bodies. I settled myself in the crook where his arm met his shoulder and laid my ear against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. It became the only sound in the world. His heartbeat reverberating through my ear, into my head, down into my throat and settling as a butterfly in my stomach. The bomb could go off again and I wouldn’t hear it over his heartbeat.

As if he were awake, and we’d done this a thousand times (perhaps we had), his arm under me curled around my back with a surprisingly conscious grip. I remember exactly how each long finger felt, gently (gentle in a way that Boris rarely was when awake) pressing into the bare skin between my shoulder blades. We never cut our nails. They either broke, were chewed off, or left to their own devices. A few of his nails were particularly long, feeling soft as a feather while also solid and sharp on the sensitive, untouched skin beneath them.

This was the only place that had felt like home since my mother had died. Here was safe. I felt… felt what I couldn’t admit to myself then and struggle to admit even now. Absentmindedly, I traced circles on his bare chest with my middle finger. Having fallen into a sleepy daze curled up with him in our bed, I nearly had a heart attack when his hand reached up and held mine on his chest.

“Can’t sleep, Potter?” His voice was deep and thick with sleep, his accent even stronger than usual. He pulled me tighter to him. I lifted my head to look at him. He was staring at me, eyes boring holes in my face that my head and my heart could not handle. Our noses nearly touched.

I wanted to pull away, to make a snarky remark like he would have done but instead what came out was _I didn’t know you were awake._ Letting go of my hand just long enough to push himself, and me, more upright, he looked me directly in the eye. My chest pressed against his side, our fingers intertwined and his small arm holding me like I would break into a thousand pieces if he let go- I felt my lips part just a little. My face turned red under his intense gaze. He leaned his forehead against mine. My breath hitched in my throat.

“You need vodka.”

Pulling away from him, snatching back my hand, I punched him in the shoulder, “You fucker, no I don’t.”

And with that he pulled my back flat against the mattress, laid his warm, bony chest on mine, our faces not even inches apart from one another. I closed my eyes, waiting, not knowing what for. I could feel every bone in his body, his bare legs against mine, his breath on my cheek. Even with my eyes closed I could see him there above me.

In a flash the weight of him was gone. He was shoving something cold and hard into my hands. When I opened my eyes it was the half empty bottle of vodka that we had left on the floor. “Will help you sleep. Drink.” I took a swig to humor him.

Finally, before rolling over to face the wall, away from me, he plucked the glasses (I had forgotten were still there) from the bridge of my nose, folded them and laid them on the nightstand next to an overflowing ashtray and about 8 empty (mostly) beer bottles. “Do not need glasses to see dreams, Potter.”

But I did need glasses to see the only dream worth having.

-

Kotku and Boris had made up soon after and just like that he was gone again. I remembered the night I arrived in Vegas. It was nothing like New York. Its opposite in every way (except for the excessive gambling). I had thought there was nothing here that, in a million years, would make me want to stay. The heat was overbearing, the sun was so bright you were blinded every time you stepped outside, the people had a lazy ease to them that bored me- there were no redeeming qualities. You couldn’t even go outside and swim during the day without the risk of developing melanoma.

But the moment I heard him in English class, when I turned around to see who had been brave enough to say what I was thinking, I saw his mess of hair, unwashed, unkempt. Without knowing him, I understood him and he understood me. He so quickly went from a stranger to the best friend I’ve ever had in my life (even now). Friend didn’t seem right then, doesn’t seem right now. Friend seems to describe something much more casual than all the complex conversations and emotions we shared with one another.

Boris was there in a way no one ever was, in a way no one every could be. If I was an airplane, spinning out of control, crashing to the earth destroying everything and everyone in my path, he was my wings, picking me back up and giving me what I needed to fly again. While I knew the Barbours, had they had the opportunity to know Boris, would see him as a ‘bad influence’ (a bad influence I’d willingly follow into the depths of hell), he was the only person that kept me alive (dare I say, cared that I even lived) during my duration in Vegas.

But even Boris had left me. He had left me for a _girl_. Wasn’t there supposed to be some kind of code? Some guy code? _Bros before hos_ or some misogynistic shit like that? I had thought a week and a half was a long time without seeing his pale face or his messy mane of curls but this had become much worse. A whole month had gone by. Boris had hardly been at school- I think I saw him maybe 3 times between the two classes we would typically have together. When I did see him he avoided eye contact and wouldn’t speak to me, just as Tom Cable had after my mother died. I was back in that circle of hell all over again. Kotku too rarely made an appearance at school.

It was 2:13am (I remember distinctly looking at my shitty watch, which Boris had stolen and given to me) on a Thursday during a freak thunderstorm. Dad and Xandra were staying on the strip for a few days _(big races! Going to make shit loads of cash! I’ll take you out for a fancy steak dinner when it’s all over, kid!)._ I awoke with a start to the coinciding sounds of the front door squealing (desperately begging for grease) and Popchik loosing his goddamn mind about the front door. Instinctively, I laid flat on my stomach peering over the arm of the couch to see if there was an intruder.

First I heard a thump, then the clank of glass against the wall- not breaking, but that hollow sound of a bottle partially full of liquid. “Potter…” my heart leapt with joy and fear, for his voice was empty, scratchy and barely above a whisper, but he was here. For the first time in over a month _he was here._ Another thud and my instincts chose fight mode as I flew off the couch, nearly falling on my ass as I slid across the tile and into the entryway to find Boris collapsed on the ground, vodka in hand, Popchik excitedly licking the rain off his face as the wind blew the downpour just inside the door.

After shutting- and this time locking- the front door, I got down to the floor and tried to help Boris up, pushing the vodka from his hands, discarding it on the ground in the puddle of water that had gathered around him. He howled in pain, face scrunching up in agony. “Potter, your small hands are like knives. Leave me to die.” I could tell he didn’t really mean it, and I also needed him to get off the floor.

“Hey asshole, can you walk?” Boris, slumped against the wall, head lolling to the side and body limp like a rag doll, just looked at me like I had spoken a language he did not understand. The rain had flattened his curls, plastering hair all over his forehead and cheeks making him look like a drowned dog. “Okay. Alright.”

Being significantly smaller than he was, I had no idea why I thought this would work, but by some miracle of strength, it did. I suppose Boris being more starved the normal helped, and my dad doing better with his bets (always thanking his lucky stars) had been bringing home more substantial, possibly even nutritious meals. Or maybe I had properly grown, as boys our age did, but still I felt small compared to the bright shining star that Boris was to me, even though he had left me stranded, alone, all for Kotku.

I kneeled beside him, laced one arm under his knees, the other across his shoulder blades, and hoisted him up with all my strength. He groaned in my arms as his limbs fell limp around him. As quick as possible, because he was slipping and I wasn’t actually this strong, I got him to the couch, practically throwing his long but lanky frame onto the cushions. “Ah! Potter, am not cat!” His voice was so hoarse. But I rolled my eyes, ignoring his cries, and went to flick on the living room light switch.

I fell back into the wall as Boris tightly closed his currently very swollen eyes to protect against the light. Every visible inch of his normally pale white skin was badly bruised- black, blue, purple and red. “Boris..” My voice came out a croaking whisper, “did your dad…”

His hand flopped over the side of the couch half heartedly, as if reaching for me, “Is nothing. Come, Potter.” I flicked the light off. It wasn’t nothing but I couldn’t bare to look at what had happened to him. I inched my way over to him until I was sitting on the floor in front of him. He beckoned me to take his hand. All at once I was thankful for my glasses, the darkness and his swollen eyes all working in combination to hide the tears I pushed back but forcefully fell down my face in protest.

Reluctantly, far too sober for intimacy, I slipped my hand into his without holding on. But he entwined our fingers, an anchor with strength enough for both of us. That was the end of me. A small squeeze of the hand and I was hanging on to him like he was the life preserver that would take me to shore through troubled waters. I ripped the glasses off my face with my free hand, tossing them carelessly to the floor before wiping my eyes and nose on the long sleeve of my shirt. I slid somehow closer to the couch, to him, laying my head down, in a most uncomfortable attitude, so I could look at his face on his level. But, of course, I couldn’t see him, let alone attempt to look at him. The tears, the glasses I had discarded and his marred face made it entirely impossible to see at all. His fingers stroked mine and he whispered words in Russian I had never heard _milaya, dobraya dusha. vse budet khorosho, ya budu v poryadke._

Something in his words emboldened me, though I didn’t understand. Holding on tightly to his hand, I shifted onto my knees so I could carefully run my fingers through his hair- a soothing gesture my mother had done for me when I had been sick, home from school. I brushed the black tendrils out of his eyes and back off his face. I ran my nails across his scalp softly. Underneath my touch, I felt him relax and even lean into me. We stayed like that for what felt like an eternity- an eternity I would gladly live. Soon his breathe evened out and his hold on my hand softened. Slowly and quietly, I made my way to the kitchen to get ice to calm the swelling in his face. I grabbed a towel to dry his hair and an extra blanket from my Dad’s recliner.

His skin was covered in goose flesh and his body shook slightly in sleep. The clothes he had arrived in were soaking wet and the air conditioning had only served to make him cold as ice. Putting the ice, towel and blanket down on the coffee table (a table that was a certain kind of miracle. In all our rough housing it managed to escape total ruin) and set to removing his wet clothing. Nearly every expanse of previously pale skin beneath his black clothing was discolored in a gut wrenching way. I wrapped him in all the blankets I could gather from around the house, turning the air conditioning off completely when I had finished. Carefully and softly I slipped a pillow under his head and gently used the towel to dry his hair as best as I could while holding the bag of ice on one half of his face.

Popchik had protectively curled up at his feet and I felt a certain, uncharacteristic warmth for the dog, the same kind of warmth I think Boris felt towards him. “Good dog, Popper, good dog.”

When I had made him as comfortable as I reasonably could, I sat back down on the ground, by the couch, arms folded over on the cushion closest to Boris’ face. I laid my head down on my arms, thought about how beautiful he was when he slept, about how no matter how many times he left me, I would never let him go and then I let my mind fade to black.

-

Around 4am I woke up with the worst cramp in my neck and a stiffness in my back to rival that of a grandpa. I knew there was no going back to sleep. After a walk to the kitchen for 2 glasses of water, some aspirin and a good stretch, I came back and sat with legs crossed in front of the couch. Looking back, I think I wanted to make sure he wouldn’t stop breathing. Boris slept soundlessly on his back, face turned towards the back of the couch. His arm lay limp down the length of his torso. Without thinking about it, I traced a hand down his arm and interlaced our fingers with my thumb resting on his pulse to reassure myself the blood was still actively pumping through his veins.

I was so afraid of losing him. We’d had so many close calls- both him and me, but the frequent abuse from his father frightened me more than all the drugs and alcohol in the world. The man was completely unpredictable. Sometimes he’d almost treat Boris like his whole world and the next night he’d beat him within an inch of his life. I remember one night it was so bad I had begged Boris to stay at my dad’s house for good. He practically lived with us anyways. _Is family, Potter. All the family I have._ While he wasn’t terribly attached to his father, and I wasn’t terribly attached to mine, I understood. We both accepted whatever connection we could to better times. In both of our cases, this was our fathers.

I don’t know how long I had been sitting there, still, thinking about the twisted kind of light Boris had brought into my life. I was a person my mother wouldn’t even recognize but with Boris it was a weird kind of happy like I had never experienced. When he was gone, I was miserable, when he was with me, I forgot most of what made me miserable in the first place. Perhaps my mother wouldn’t recognize me, but she would love me. And I know her big heart would have made it impossible for her not to have loved Boris too. I often imagined what it would have been like if I had met Boris in New York, if he had known my mother and stayed with us instead of with Xandra and Dad. How different our lives would have been.

At some point I had fallen asleep. A fact I only knew because I awoke once again when Boris pulled his hand out from underneath mine. Slowly I lifted my head up to see him, blurry without my glasses, run a hand through his hair with a pained look. I offered him the water and aspirin I had prepared earlier. “Let me help you,” I said quietly, getting up to slide behind him on the couch so he would be sitting upright to drink. The blankets rolled down exposing his chest as he sat up. I took an unsteady breath- my head was spinning, the room was spinning, my friend was broken and I didn’t know what to do. My head collapsed into his hair. Gently, I wrapped my arms around him and held as tight as I dared to without causing him any pain.

“Potter,” his voice still as scratchy as it was the day before, “Are you drunk?” The smallest of laughs escaped his lips as he tried to turn to look at me. I lifted my head and loosened my arms to allow him to turn, looked quizzically at his face, then to the carpet where his gaze fell. The bottle of vodka Boris had brought in the night before had been emptied and discarded on the floor. I didn’t remember getting the bottle from the entryway, I didn’t remember drinking it but it sure did explain why I felt so dizzy and so perfectly fine touching Boris as intimately as I was. My mouth fell open, not knowing what to say. When I looked back at Boris he was looking at me with a little mischief in his eyes.

The next thing I knew, Boris’ mouth was on mine, kissing me in a way that felt both new and familiar. Familiar as if it had happened before, kind of like a dream or deja vu. And new in that I could never remember us kissing before. It felt natural. I carefully slid one hand into his hair and tilted his chin up towards me with the other. His hands held tightly to the fabric of my shirt, pulling me closer to him and himself closer to me.

-

He tasted like sleep and vodka. This wasn’t the first time we had kissed, but I’m sure Theo didn’t remember. The more trashed Theo got, the more physical he got with me. Sometimes that would be rough housing and wrestling, sometimes it would be an affectionate touch or I might catch him staring a little too long. That’s when I knew a kiss wasn’t out of the question and he wouldn’t hate himself, or me, in the morning. At least not any worse than he already did. He often initiated our drunken make-outs. The alcohol and drugs gave him the courage to be who he wanted to be, who he was too afraid to be. Life was too serious for Theo.

It hurt to twist my body the way I had to kiss him. I was sure at least one rib was broken, but it wasn’t every day that I woke up naked in the arms of my totally shit faced best friend. Must gratefully take opportunity when it presents itself. His fingers twisting in my hair was all the encouragement I needed. Small, soft fingers drew invisible lines across my jawline. I traced his lips with my tongue before biting his lower lip softly between my teeth. Handfuls of a shirt I was pretty sure had once been mine gave me leverage to pull him deeper into the kiss.

Abruptly he pulled back just enough to look down into my eyes. Smirking at him, I knew what was coming next, it was always the same, like a movie you’d seen a thousand times. “What about Kotku?”

“Ha!” This confused him but it really was so like a movie- Groundhog Day. He gets wasted, touches me, we kiss, he worries about Kotku, forgets everything in the morning, does it again the next time he’s wasted.

I snaked my arm up around his neck, not interested in going down this path again, and pulled his lips back to mine. He pushed back again. “Boris.” His voice was serious, more serious than normal, especially for being so drunk. I don’t wish to change a lot of things in my life. It hasn’t been easy, it hasn’t been normal, but I had always wished Theo could be just a little bit more relaxed, go with the flow. Even when we were just 15 I couldn’t believe he was only 15- he acted like an important CEO with the weight of the whole company resting on his too small shoulders.

Looking at him I sighed, pushing away from his chest to sit fully upright. I pulled the blankets around my waist tighter and arranged myself on the couch to sit facing him. He squinted his eyes at me just a little. His glasses- discarded on the floor. I reached for them and winced as pain shot through my side and up my spine. “Boris!” He grabbed my shoulders and made another serious face at me. “Don’t. Stay still.” He got down on the ground and felt around, looked ridiculous like Popchik wandering, looking for scraps of food.

“Left, Potter, go left.” His hand landed heavy on the frames and he shoved them back onto his face. He tried to hide it, but he gasped just a little when his eyes, now focused, looked back at me. For the first time, I looked down at my own bare skin- dark bruises all over the place. “Is nothing. Don’t worry.”

He made a grumpy face at me and cocked his head a little bit to the side. _Of course I’m worried._ He always was when I looked like shit. “I fell down stairs, really, is nothing.” He eyed me suspiciously, but crawled back up onto the couch across from me and we sat cross legged staring at each other. He didn’t believe me.

“I haven’t seen you in a month and out of the blue you show up looking like you went through a sucker punch car wash, drunk off your ass, and say it’s all nothing!? What the fuck? This is not fucking nothing, dumbass!” I watched his eyes water and knew he would remember none of this. With a hand on the back of his neck, I pulled him towards me and leaned my forehead against his, my hair falling in both of our eyes.

“Potter, calm down.” I felt his neck tense under my hand. “Sorry for disappearing. Was having problem, didn’t want to drag you into it.”

He turned his head away, “Yeah, her name is Kotku,” he said so angrily. He was right and he wasn’t. _His_ name was Theo. Kotku was where I went when being around Theo was becoming unbearable. _She_ was the distraction. See, I knew what I felt for Theo. If I was his moon, as he had called me one night very drunk, he was the planet I orbited. But he only let himself show affection or come anywhere close to admitting his feelings when he was totally shit faced. I wasn’t confused. I didn’t hate myself for the way I was and I knew he did. Unlike Theo, I would rather live my life than constantly judge everything I did under the harsh lens of right or wrong. So when Theo’s pain and suffering bled into everything, when he couldn’t let it go even for a moment, I would seek out Kotku and we would have our fun.

Before I disappeared for so long, the last time I saw Theo, we had spent the night in his bed. He wasn’t totally drunk. He stared at me all night. He thought I was asleep. I had curled my arm around him as I often did. I liked to hold onto him in sleep, it seemed to help with his nightmares. But he wasn’t falling asleep. I had to roll away to keep from kissing him. He wasn’t drunk enough to be okay with it in the morning. But then- unexpectedly he cuddled up to me, laying his head on my chest. I had to remind myself to keep my breathing even like in sleep.

We could speak to each other without speaking but nights like that one I did not understand him at all. I decided to give up on feigning sleep and see how comfortable he was that night with intimacy. When I looked down into his face I could see he wanted me, but he wasn’t going to act on it. That’s what made me leave. It was torture to be with him, watch the wheels turning in his brain fighting between the desire I knew he had and his fucked up version of right and wrong. But I came back, I always came back, because I needed him just like he needed me.

So he blamed Kotku for all his/our problems and that was fine. I can’t lie- I enjoyed his jealousy. It was him admitting what he felt for me without saying as much. “Sure, Potter.”

“You’re such an ass, Boris!”

“Of course!” I just laughed at him. He moved to hit me in his frustration, but I caught his wrist. He looked me dead in the eye, frustrated. But his whole body softened. He twisted his arm in my hand until he was touching my neck. He used his other hand to push himself into my lap, legs wrapping around my back. I inhaled sharply at the weight of him on my bruised legs.

Concern immediately colored his face, but as he went to move I held his hand in place at my neck and locked an arm around his lower back, holding his body to mine. “Don’t go.”

“You first.” I crashed our lips together tugging on his shirt to drag him somehow closer to me. He held my face softly in his hands, being too careful. I wished it could be like this all the time, that we could do this even when he wasn’t drunk. Though neither of us were ever totally sober together, it would have been nice for him to remember or even accept what he felt for me.

He let a hand trail softly down my bare chest and I gasped into his mouth. He was getting bold. A hand came to my shoulder and gently pushed until I was laying down and he was hovering above me. In his first rough motion of the early morning, he took a handful of my hair and pulled back until my chin was up in the air. I shut my eyes and he was kissing down the front of my neck. His lips were soft and inexperienced but it felt like a dream. I took the opportunity to snag the hem of his shirt and drag it up over his head- it seemed only fair seeing as how he had completely undressed me when I arrived. As out of it as I had been, I remembered the feeling of his small hands carefully peeling off the wet clothing, moving my limbs only as much as necessary and avoiding any skin to skin contact as much as possible.

I could still see the remnants of a sunburn that had turned to tan on his chest. We both looked starved, but he was still the most beautiful person I had ever seen. As he kissed down my chest, I propped myself up slightly on an elbow and buried my face in his sandy hair. It smelled like me.

Shock and pleasure took over as he laid gentle kisses down my pelvic bone, letting the blankets drop to the floor. He looked up at me briefly, our eyes locking, a small smirk playing at my lips as I threw my head back and Theo did things I never thought I’d have the pleasure to experience with him.

And that made it a thousand times harder the night he left me. It had been the only kiss we had shared that he would remember. I walked home alone that night savoring the lingering feeling of our lips pressed together, both chapped and dry, but the only thing I had ever wanted as much in the whole world. I didn’t cry. Something in me told me I would see him again. I didn’t know when or how, but there was a string connecting our souls that was stronger than his fear. All I had to do was wait. And I’d gotten pretty good at that.

I looked up into the sky, no moon, only stars, released the breath I didn’t know I was holding out into the air and slipped the last tab of acid under my tongue before entering the house where my father was no doubt ‘3 sheets to the wind’, a phrase Theo’s dad had taught me.

-

I thought about Boris far more than I should after leaving his place in Antwerp. I tried to drink him out of my mind. I tried to drug him out of my mind. I even tried to fuck him out of my mind. All my vices just brought me back to him. He rarely came to The States, work taking him all over the world, but never New York. My work taking me all over, but never where he was. Before Amsterdam, at least there was Pippa and Kitsey. I hadn’t spoken or heard from Pippa in almost a year and after breaking things off with Kitsey I decided to keep my distance for a while.

A person can’t go through everything we had gone through together in life without feeling some sort of brotherly bond. Brotherly isn’t right. Just as friend was never right. I still couldn’t say it. After so many years, with Boris perched deep in my soul, unable to let him go, I still couldn’t say it. Since parting ways in Antwerp I often found my dreams taking me back to Vegas, drunken nights in bed, Boris’ lips touching every part of my body and we would suddenly be in New York in my room at Hobie’s and I’d be pulling on his hair and he’d be biting my neck and then I would wake up sweating, exasperated and hard as a rock. _Fuck._

I didn’t even have his number. Some nights I would go to the bar where we had reconnected (what seemed like ages ago now). I would sit there for hours drinking shot after shot of vodka until the bartender would cut me off and call me a cab. I would sit and hope. Waiting like a child waits for their mother at a bus stop. Waiting like a puppy for his master to come home.

I hated how rattled he got me. I thought after Pippa this obsessive habit of infatuation I had would die out. But really, I was in (what I thought was) love with her for almost my entire life. I hadn’t even been over her when Boris came back into my life. It’s complicated having your heart pulled in so many different directions. It was Pippa. I was supposed to love Pippa. But when I closed my eyes at night all I saw were black curls, pale skin, and a perfectly straight row of fake teeth smiling back at me.

One time, just one time, I had been drunk off my ass, not so far as to be totally black out drunk, but drunk enough to find myself in a gay bar in the West Village. Mostly I sat there drinking more, probably trying to drown out the Boris voice that lived in my head, mocking me mercilessly for even going inside. At the same time, I knew if going into a gay bar was what Boris wanted to do, he would do it with reckless abandon- zero fear.

But then I saw his messy mass of black hair, sleek, dark clothing. Emboldened by the alcohol, I approached him, put a hand on his shoulder, cupped his face when he turned around and sloppily kissed him right on the lips. I heard laughter around us and it didn’t feel right. Pulling back I realized my error. It wasn’t Boris at all but a handsome look-a-like from behind. His face was nothing like Boris, none of the effortless charm or playfulness.

“Oh god. I’m so sorry. I thought you were someone else. I’m very sorry,” I backed away while I spoke, bumping into people. The man and his friends laughed.

“It’s okay sweetie! You’re not so bad.” He winked at me. I turned and practically ran out to the street and hurled the contents of my stomach all over the sidewalk.

As I walked home, holding my stomach, I pulled my phone out to check the time. But I didn’t see the time at all.

**_Potter! Flying in tomorrow. Get drink with me?_ ** ****

Before responding I saved the number under the title ‘The Idiot’ and then realized that I was the idiot as it occurred to me this would be a temporary number- as they always were with him.

I didn’t want to seem too eager. Waiting until I got home was almost impossible. The streets went on forever. It seemed like endless sidewalk, couples laughing and passing me, groups of friends bumping into me nearly knocking me to the ground. Finally, stumbling through the door, I made my way upstairs and took a cold shower before crawling into bed to formulate a response.

**Yeah, sure.** ****

Almost immediately,

**_:) Gyuri will pick you up @7_ ** ****

I didn’t respond. But my stomach turned in a way that had nothing to do with the alcohol.

It was 5:00pm and work was finished. I dressed and re-dressed five times. The clothes I was putting on weren’t even all that different. Should I wear a tie? A Jacket? Maybe just a sweater? I settled on one of the dark grey suits I would wear to work and a forest green tie. It would be fine. _Wouldn’t it?_ I tried on every pair of shoes I owned (4 pairs) and then tried them all on again. A deep green pair of wingtips Hobie had gotten me as a gift seemed right.

It was 5:45 by the time I had figured out how to get dressed. I decided I could shave again, even though I had shaved in the morning and my facial hair really didn’t grow that fast.

5:55 I sat down at my desk and rearranged my books and pens. Then I arranged them back the way they were.

6:00 I looked at my tin of pills. 6:02 I shoved them in a drawer, deciding I didn’t need that tonight.

I had a shot of vodka at 6:50. It was just Boris, why was I acting like a teenager?

I found myself standing at the window staring at the street below waiting for that black car to roll up. I didn’t know if Boris would be with Gyuri or waiting for me wherever he had planned on taking us for drinks. I never knew with Boris. I paced back and forth for about a minute before settling at the window again.

I thought about the man at the gay bar- how I’d been so sure it was Boris and how my first instinct wasn’t to say hello but to go straight in for a kiss. It was so out of character for me but I kept coming back to it and so badly wishing it had been Boris.

6:55- I took out the little tin of pills again, thought about it and realized I didn’t want one. I felt sick, but for the first time in a long time I was okay with it. I wanted to _feel something._ 6:59- I saw the black car pull up and stop in front of the shop.

I felt like a child with a crush. It was just Boris, maybe. I don’t know at what point I had decided to hide behind the window frame, but there I was peering around the window casing to look out onto the street without being seen. Would Gyuri come ring the green bell, or would Boris step out of the car?

What was I even thinking? I leaned my head back on the wall. Boris had a wife. He seemed to love her about as much as I had loved Kitsey. But he had children too. _Who he never saw._ Boris had all but dismissed our whole childhood as a phase in which ‘we needed girls’. I realized then I had gone mad. I was making this into something it wasn’t- _again._ It was another Pippa situation but with different shared trauma. I banged my head on the wall cursing myself.

The old floor creaked under the step of a leather boot. “Potter.” And there he was. Standing in the doorway of my bedroom at Hobie’s flat smiling with his dark overcoat, dress shirt unbuttoned much too far down his creamy chest (or not far enough), curls all a mess, rolling an unlit cigarette back and forth over his fingers.

Some part of me hoped the wall would swallow me. I leaned into it deep waiting to disappear. When I didn’t, I looked down at the bottle of vodka and the shot glass. I looked back at Boris. Back to the vodka. I poured myself a shot, raised it in a toast towards Boris, sucked it down my throat, crossed the room, grabbed him by the back of the neck and kissed him in the way I had so desperately wanted to for so long. It only took the shortest of moments before he was kissing me back, shoving my winter jacket off my shoulders, kicking the door closed with his foot and pushing me down on my own bed, far too small for two grown men, and straddling me.

It was wrong, but it wasn’t. It was everything I had wanted for so long, even if I couldn’t admit it to myself. And Boris was kissing me back! I hadn’t made it all up! He was as eager as I was for the distance between us to disappear for good. I fought my head every step of the way and with each kiss I was closer to winning the battle against my fear. ****

He had begun to unbutton my shirt when he unexpectedly stopped altogether. My breath caught in my throat as I looked at him, wanting and confused. “Potter, you are drunk, yes?” His eyes were soft- sad- as he spoke.

I stared at him for a moment before softly holding his face. Kissing his cheek I said, “No, Boris. I’m not drunk.”

“And you do not hate yourself anymore than usual?” I had no idea where this line of questioning was coming from.

“No more than usual?” I confirmed but with a curious inflection, “Why would you ask that?”

He got off of me and sat on the bed next to me, one leg folded under him, the other dangling down off the bed. I frowned. “What are you going on about, Boris?” I pushed my glasses up the bridge of my nose.

He wouldn’t look at me. “We’ve done these things before. I think you don’t remember so well. Very drunk at the time. But, Potter, I remember all. Every kiss, every touch. I remember the way you looked at me- like we were the only ones in whole world.”

I sat up, taken aback. The only thing I really remembered was Boris kissing me on the street before I left for New York. There were these hazy dream-like memories, kisses in bed, fooling around on the couch but I never imagined they had been real, just wet dreams produced by my adolescent mind. “When?” There was a long pause. I heard the cars on the street, horns honking, a siren in the distance. The conversations of loud friends and children laughing with their families down on the sidewalk.

Finally he looked at me. “In Vegas. Many times you were very drunk.” He rubbed his temple in a tired way. “When you get too drunk we kiss and fool around. You always passed out and never remembered after.” He swallowed hard. “And, Potter?”

I looked at him. _What Boris?_

“I don’t want you to forget- to forget me, to forget _us.”_ I took his hand in mine. His eyes and the sadness in his voice broke my heart. I had never seen this side of Boris. He looked like the kid I grew up with again. Like he did when he’d appear at my house after a particularly rough beating from his father. I didn’t want to make him feel like that.

I slid my fingers under the shoulder of his thick coat and pulled it down his arm, “Boris,” I did the same on the other side. When the jacket fell to the bed beneath us, I pulled him closer by his shirt. I unbuttoned the few buttons he had bothered to secure. “You are,” he held his breath as I removed his shirt, tossing it on the floor with my coat, “so deep in my soul,” I kissed his neck and he closed his eyes, “nothing could ever,” I kissed behind his ear, “make me,” I threaded my hands up into his hair and he wrapped his arms around my back, “want to let you go.”

We leaned our foreheads together. “I’m going to tell you what I should have told you 10 years ago now.” I pulled back just enough to look straight into his dark, beautiful, mischievous eyes, “Boris, I love you.” He kissed me so hard I thought he’d knock my teeth out. He climbed back on top of me and tore my shirt open not bothering with the buttons. He touched every part of my body and I his. We had years to make up for.

**Author's Note:**

> Cool story, bro. I don't post much as I like to finish a whole work before getting it into the wild. I write these for me, but if you enjoy it also that sparks joy. :)


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